


Mìle fàilte, mo charaid! (A thousand welcomes, my friend!)

by Mari_Knickerbocker



Series: Like Two Ships in the Night [7]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, BAMF Rory Williams, Episode: s05e13 The Big Bang, Fluff and Humor, Meet and Greets, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, The Last Centurion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mari_Knickerbocker/pseuds/Mari_Knickerbocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This box needs a guard – I killed the last one.”<br/>“No! Rory, no! Don’t even think about it!”<br/>“She’ll be all <em>alone!</em>”<br/>“She <em>won’t</em> feel it.”<br/>“Yeah, you bet she <strong>won’t!</strong>”<br/>“2,000 years, Rory. You won’t even sleep – you’d be conscious every second, it would drive you mad.”<br/>"Will she be safer if I stay? Look me in the eye and tell me she wouldn’t be safer."<br/>“Rory….”<br/>“Answer <em><strong>me!</strong></em>”<br/>“Yes. Obviously.”<br/>“Then how could I leave her?”<br/>“Why do you have to be so…..<em>human</em>?”<br/>“Because right now I’m <strong>not!</strong>”<br/>2,000 years was an awful long time to stand vigil over an unresponsive box. A box that had been more trouble that it was worth. If not for what it held. For her, Rory would endure <em>anything</em>.<br/>Just because he had to wait 2,000 years before seeing Amy again it did not necessarily mean he <em>had</em> to go it alone the entire time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mìle fàilte, mo charaid! (A thousand welcomes, my friend!)

**Author's Note:**

> The dialogue in the summary is from "The Big Bang" and Moffat's genius; it's not mine. The title is in Scottish Gaelic if anyone has any pointers I'd appreciate it! (My family is Irish but I am hopelessly American *shrugs*).

He had told the Doctor he would stay and keep watch over Amy and that’s exactly what he intended to do, no matter what. Rory could wait. Rory was a patient man – this was not the first time he had to wait for Amy to catch up to him, after all. He made it through their childhood without giving up on Amy, hoping – knowing – that one day she’d see his devotion to her for what it truly was and return it. (He’d have to remember to thanks Mels for pointing out the blatantly obvious yet again. As far as he was concern he could not thank Mels enough). Then he could survive a couple thousand years waiting for her to return from the brink of death.

Rory realized that waiting this time around would be a tad more difficult than before. Then, at least, when he was trying to get Miss Amelia Pond to sit up and take notice of one Rory Williams he’d already been under the bright warmth of her regard. Sure she had erroneously assumed that he was gay and treated him as an honorary gal pal. But then Rory wasn’t particularly picky and any attention form that brilliant madwoman would suffice. It was enough to know that _she_ **noticed** him. Now…, now he was alone. Just him and a box left to piss away the hours; twirling his thumbs watching the days wan into months and the months stretch on into years whilst the years sprawled out into centuries.

Two thousand years of self-imposed solitary confinement without the luxury of escaping the doldrums of his vigil through sleep. It was enough to drive a lesser man off his rocker and ‘round the bend.

In that long indolent spell of years Rory gained a whole new perspective, a whole new appreciation, for the Doctor and his blue box. He could definitely relate to the Doctor’s attachment, even affection, for the TARDIS. Rory doesn’t much care for the Pandorica – he has a feeling that without it they wouldn’t be in this mess, but then again without it they could very well be in a **worse** mess – beyond its utility. If not for this ‘ultimate’ prison Amy would be dead. And that would kill Rory. There was no disputing that one fact; without Amelia Pond there was no Rory Williams. Faith! The universe had already tried to erase him from existence and failed all because of her; because of that beautiful, stubborn, fiery, Scottish madwoman!

So while he appreciated the Pandorica, was grateful for the service it provided, that was the extent of his feelings towards the gloomy prison box. He _cared_ for the woman safely tucked away inside and looked after the Pandorica because it was the only way Rory could continue to do what he did best – look after his Amy Pond.

Two thousand years – give or take a minute – wasn’t such a terribly long time to wait when he thought about what would be there waiting for him at the end of it. Rory meant it when he told the Doctor he needed to be _so **human**_ because he wasn’t; this was his penance and his absolution all at once. Amy was his saving grace, especially when she drove him mad.

Rory understood the difficulties of the task before him; he had not, however, fully anticipated or appreciated how lonely the years would become. But he was a patient man he could wait it out and he would endure the loneliness so that Amy would not have to be alone.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t get to him, eventually.

And that would go a long way towards explaining why he did not question things as much as he should have when someone came along and (temporarily) helped alleviate his burdens.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

At first he thought he would try and keep track of the years by carving little slash marks into the surrounding stone – ala every _single_ prison movie ever made – but quickly gave it up as a bad job. Firstly, he realized that it would only dull the edge of his sword and that was too important a tool to squander in an attempt to alleviate boredom. Secondly, it was rather difficult to track the days when he was reluctant to leave the Pandorica and actually note the passing between night and day. Lastly, it was just a sure fire way to drive him _batty_.

Therefore it goes without saying (but still needs to be said) that Rory had no idea what season it was, let alone the date when he first met _her_. He does, however, recall the circumstances of that first meeting.

“Just you wait Amy, we’ll have this all sorted in no time.” Rory’s taken to talking to himself like a duck to water – a bad habit to have gotten into, he’ll start to sound like the Doctor soon if he’s not careful. _Speaking of the Doctor…._

“Hasn’t this created a massive paradox? Doesn’t me being here as a plastic Roman contradict the child me that’s going to exist in two-thousand years? Do I even exist in this version of the universe? I got erased from the last one, so maybe I won’t even be born in this one. Then again, maybe I still exist as a child, since I wasn’t erased from reality until after I was grown – which isn’t that a paradox also? And which childhood is the real one? Once we get Amy back and bring back the stars will that cancel this entire mess out? Do we grow up all over again? Will we even remember all of this?” He paused for a moment to scratch at his head in confusion. “Blimey it’s enough to give Cybermen a headache. How does the Doctor keep this all _straight_? Who am I kidding, he doesn’t. I should know better than to attempt to think about this logically,” he waved his arms about vaguely in a gesture meant to incorporate everything that had been going on lately. “ **Never** apply _logic_ to the **Doctor!** ”

He continues in that vein for some time muttering to himself before eventually just settling for shaking his head in bemused disbelief. Gradually he notices a sniffling noise softly echoing about the underground chamber. At first he dismisses it as mice scampering about in the dark unseen corners. But that’s at first blush. Upon a second thought, and further reflection, he realizes that it was far too regular a snuffling sound for mice to make and far too loud to be just the pitter-patter of little mice-y feet. The longer Rory listens to the snuffling the more he appreciates that it is accompanied by the occasional muffled sob and a sharp intake of breath. Defiantly not normal sounds one would expect from an average mouse.

Growing curious Rory stood and moving as stealthily as a man dressed in authentic Centurion garb could (which wasn’t very much) he started to scout the parameter of his current home. He’s just about made a full circuit of the room without discovering anything when the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and just on the edge of the torchlight catches he’s attention. Rory wants to dismiss it as a nothing but the play of his own shadow over the rough stone surface; he doesn’t really want to think he’s already failed at his self-appointed task, when a particularly wretched sob emerges from the same shadowy cranny. And, alright, **yes!** Right now he’s an Auton copy of Rory Williams – nothing more than a plastic Roman Centurion guarding a misinterpretation of Pandora’s box that has all of _his_ hope locked away inside of it – but there’s a part of him that is **still** nurse Rory Williams from Leadworth. And sure that could just be the software talking, but software or no software, he could not ignore someone in so much pain that they would make a sound so _wretchedly **pathetic**_. Rory couldn’t leave whoever it was alone in the dark with whatever it was that tormented them so. (He was a bit of a bleeding heart, so sue him, there were worse things in the universe to be). 

With a completely internal sigh and the nagging doubt that this might be a mistake, Rory approaches the half concealed nook the crying originated from. Slowly the torchlight disperses the shadows and he’s shown a slip of a girl dressed in a custom similar to that of the local Celts. That’s the only impression he gets before the firelight is flicking off of bright yellow eyes and he’s startled by her fear filled yell.

“Ahhh!”

“Arghhh!!” He yelled in response jumping backwards and dropping the sputtering torch and clasping a hand – with bruising force against the breast plate – over his racing heart. It took a few heaving breaths to calm himself before Rory felt confident enough to attempt a second approach.

“Miss,” he began keeping his voice steady and soothing. Rory probably should not have tried sneaking up on the poor girl before, no wonder she had reacted with fear. “Miss, I’m sorry for scaring you before, are you alright.”

“Ah umnae,” was the grumbled response followed by some more disgruntled murmuring that he either could not hear or was unable to translate. He did not know if his ‘software’ allowed him to understand the locals or if the TARDIS’ translation matrix still worked for him. Whatever the reason he was grateful for the ability to understand and make himself understood. Now that that completely did away with misunderstandings – they were all still human beings after all – but it certainly cut down on the number of occurrences.

“I am sorry about startling you like that, miss.”

The girl grumbled something then that did not translate and Rory had a feeling he did not want to know anyways. Most likely it was not anything flattering.

"Do you suppose you could come out from back there? Let me check you over, make sure that you're not hurt?"

“Fit douche i’ orra dive ye take me fur?” The girl demanded her voice low and growly. It took Rory a moment or two to work out her question her Scottish accent was so thick.

“I don’t think you’re any kind of fool,” he answered once he made out the question. A gruff snort of derision was the only reply he got. It was accompanied by a scampering sound that he was afraid indicated she was squirming further back into the crevice in the cave wall.

“Really I’d just like to make sure that you’re not hurt,” he insisted. “I am a nurse.”

“Noo ah ken ye think me doited,” and the girl’s voice was think with sarcasm, “yer a bleeding Roman!”

Reflectively Rory looked down at himself and took in how he was dressed then attempted to peer into her hiding spot in what he hoped was a reassuring manner; “No, really I am a nurse. I realize that I’m dressed like this but you have to believe me that’s not who I am, really.”

Her response to that bit of reassurance was a string of heavy, colorful, and stinging epithets. With a sigh and giving it up as a bad job Rory retreated to his perch by the Pandorica. He figured she would come out of her hiding place when and if she wanted to. He propped his elbows on his knees and rested his head in hands and just barely restrained the urge to whistle or sob out of frustration.

This was just what he needed, someone else to worry about. With a groan he flung himself backwards letting his helmeted head clunk hollowly against the side of the Pandorica. _As if I didn’t already have such a full plate_ ; he thought with a mostly internal eye roll. Alright, so yes the boredom and the long stretches of silences were starting to get to him. Still, he did not need to become responsible for the wellbeing of some pubescent native. _With any luck she’ll just slink off as quietly as she slunk in here_.

It’s an uncharacteristically uncharitable thought and Rory’s rather ashamed of himself for thinking it in the first place. But, _seriously_ how many shocks did the world honestly expect him to endure before he went rather spectacularly around the bend. Just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, Rory rapped his head against the side of the big gray pain-in-his-arse box again.

“Is yon some ritual tae prove yer devoution tae the dhe i' idjits?” A softer voice than the one he had grown accustomed to hearing inquired.

Rory opened his eyes and visibly suppressed the involuntary reaction to jump in surprise. He never heard her approach. The girl was suddenly standing directly in front of him bent over at the waist, head listing to the side in an attempt to look him in the eye. Her brows were pulled together quizzically as she studied his expression, her tongue poking out a little bit between her lips in thought. The first thing Rory notices is that she has a sweet heart shaped face with golden almond shaped eyes. Her face is mostly comprised of sharp angles with a gauntness to her cheeks, the hallmark of years of privation and rough living, that makes her look older than she truly is.

“No it’s not a ritual to the god of idjits,” Rory answers her unable to keep the sarcasm out of his own voice.

“Then fit wye div it?”

“Desperation I suppose.” The girl actually cracks a smile at that and Rory's surprised to notice that she has rather good teeth for someone in this day and age. "Why are you here? How did you get here?" He cannot help but ask the questions and her smile quickly turns into a frown and she straightens up turning away from him hugging her arms to her chest.

Pursing his lips in a pained grimace Rory notices the blood stains on her tunic and down her animal hide leggings. He’s a bit shocked to see that she’s barefooted and that there are speckles of blood mingled with mud around the soles of her feet.

“Ah ran,” came her succinct answer. She refused to look at him.

“From what?” He prodded and her head whipped around so fast he fancied he could hear the vertebrae in her neck snap. She stared at him pugnaciously the effect of her fierce glare ruined (or enhanced, depending on one’s point of view) by a plumb bottom lip pushed out into a full on pout.

“Look in my experience, one doesn’t run until their feet start to bleed unless they’re running from something,” he explained patiently thankful for all the years of experience he has had dealing with Amy. 

_Scotts, stubborn for the sake of stubbornness_ , he cannot help but think with a rueful shake of his head.

“I’d like to help, if I can.”

“Ye cannot help, ye won t un'erstn. Yer a min and a Roman, ye’ll anely clype me tae ging back.”

“Alright I am a man, not a Roman, but defiantly a man,” Rory corrected he couldn’t leave it alone. “And I don’t see myself telling you to go back, if it’s bad enough that you’ve already ran away once then what’s the point in sending you back? So why are you running?”

“Ma husband, he’s a wife beater an a stocious ah’d raither die nor ging back tae him.”

“You’re running from a drunken asshole that hits you,” Rory repeated his voice tight with curbed rage. It wasn’t directed towards the girl but she misinterpreted the target of his anger and shrunk away from him.

“If ah ging back he ll kill me, ah ken it.” She whispered sinking to a crouch in front of him and moving to hug her knees to her chest. Then she rested her forehead on top of her knees with her long golden hair falling forward and obscuring her face. 

“Ah cwid hiv sworn he aa riggit did,” that was murmured into the hollow space between her knees and chest, almost like an afterthought. Rory wasn’t even certain if he had heard her correctly.

“Would you like me to go unleash some Roman fury on his ass?” Rory offered with half smile.

“Thocht ye weren’t a Roman,” she replied with a wan chuckle.

“Well I could try playing the part,” he suggested with a shrug, “no one need know otherwise.”

She laughed aloud and gleefully at that, weak attempt at a joke as it was. It cheered Rory to hear her genuine mirth. She was far too young to be troubled with the burden of a drunken abusive husband – he guessed she was no more than thirteen, fourteen years old tops.

“I’m Rory,” he introduced himself holding out his hand, “Rory not-really-a-Roman of Rome by way of Leadworth.” _And a few thousand years from the future,_ he added silently in his head.

“Deirdra,” she replied clasping his forearm in the traditional manner with a firm grip. 


End file.
